Thirteen Black | Sanum Patel
“Red, red, red!” Everyone cheered, flinging crystal glasses of champagne into one another, grabbing me by my pastel-brown suit jacket. The dealer loaded a cheap plastic ball into the roulette wheel as a woman in a sparkly silver dress eye-fucked me into serenity. “Place your bets!” he hollered.
“Red!” I shouted back, shoving my $287,000 of life savings into the table. The crowd roared, hands raining down on me—slapping my back, nails rubbing into my neck.
“Don’t forget me,” the silver woman smirked, angling her lips toward mine, the scent of Hennessy curling into my nose. The soft feel of that cold Glock drifted into my mind, still lingering in my beat-up green pickup truck. Biding its time for the sweet release of black.
“Don’t forget me either,” I said softly, my lips almost pressed onto hers, the thought of my ex-wife’s cackling laugh nearly thinning into whisper. Closing my eyes, I tasted red—her smug smile dissolving into ash, custody papers ripping into the air.
The dealer shot the ball, rippling up and down the wheel. Red, black, red, black. The odd green swirling in. Every roll held a blissful future — the world collapsing into nothing or blooming under my palms. It wasn’t a fool’s bet. It was the opposite of marriage.
The silver woman rested her head on my shoulder, pulling me in. I looked into her eyes as I caught the soft glimmer of black, settling on the wheel. Smirking, I leaned in, grabbing her by her waist, my Glock smiling from the truck. She kissed me back as I devoured her lips, her raven lipstick claiming me. My hands found their way on her paper-thin throat, almost grasping—when I felt a tap on my shoulder.
Opening my eyes, the crowd was utterly silent. A man in a flamingo shirt covered his mouth, pointing at me.
“Thirty-six… red,” the dealer called out.
Hennessy drained from my veins. The crowd erupted in a frenzy, thudding at my back, reverberating up my spine as the silver woman cackled, rubbing at my groin. I sat still, vision blurring as red filled the edges. My ex in a white dress. My boy in a suit too big for him, calling another man Dad. The dealer already reloading the ball.
About the Author:
Sanum Patel is a South Asian writer and attorney based in New York City. He writes both to unsettle and make you laugh, often threading humor and horror in his works. His writing has appeared in outlets including Kweli, Out Front Magazine, and Decolonial Passage, and has received editorial recognition from The Missouri Review. He will attend The Kenyon Review Writers Workshop and the DISQUIET International Literary Program in summer 2026.